


This Is Your Life

by BewareTheIdes15



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drabble, M/M, Sibling Incest, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-28
Updated: 2011-07-28
Packaged: 2017-10-21 21:54:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/230271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BewareTheIdes15/pseuds/BewareTheIdes15
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say that your life flashes before your eyes when you die. Dean’s got enough experience in the field to prove that's not true, or at least not true in the way most people take it to mean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Is Your Life

They say that your life flashes before your eyes when you die. Dean’s got enough experience in the field to prove that’s not true, or at least not true in the way most people take it to mean. Before he died – the first time – he’d had it in his head about white lights and tunnels and a moving picture show of random-ass moments from his pitiful existence. He’s been through it enough now to know what’s coming when the Doc’s needle slips in and he feels the heat of chemicals pour through his veins. It’s shit he doesn’t even remember remembering, not all of it anyway, but it’s the same stuff every time with a couple of small variations – too vivid for the fractions of a second they each take to play out in his head.

The most recent is Sam, the same age Dean was when he got his little brother back that first time, long fingers digging in, scratching and clawing, breathing out a steady stream of _more, more, more_. The same way Dean had before his time was up. The same way he had after he made the deal. Needing it harder and harder and harder still until every muscle and fiber and marrow-cell will feel what they are together each time he moves. For maybe half a second, Dean forgets about cages and keys and fucked-up angels with Daddy issues. He forgets that in a few hours’ time, Sam isn’t going to be Sam any more, that he’s going to lose the only thing he’s ever had worth living for, that his insides are already creaking and nubbled-dry like a rusted out hull because of it. He pushes in one more time, blood blooming under his skin where their bodies meet with such force, and comes so deep it will still be leaking out when Sam gives up the driver’s seat.

Next it’s Sam up inside of him, slow and sweet like it hasn’t been for a while now. The sheets still smell like whatever girl Sam had in here when he and Bobby showed up; very faintly underneath that, blood. Then again, the smell of _that_ is still so thick in Dean’s nostrils he might be smelling sizzling human entrails and brimstone for the rest of his life. The amulet – around Dean’s neck again now, where it belongs – digs into their sternums in a perfect mirror, the same way it has so many times before. Sam licks the sweat off of Dean’s neck and sucks another mark there and it’s still too early for him to know about lies and demon blood and freaky psychic powers so he just moans his baby brother’s name and feels Sam start to pump inside of him.

Sam, standing in the doorway as Dean fights his way up creaking, shoe-smoothed stairs; deal already dragging at his shoulders while hope urges him on like a man dying of thirst stumbling toward a mirage. The smell of Sam, the taste, the feel; the _right_. So right, except for that one spot on his back that screams out Dean’s failure, the spot that’ll keep him fucking Sam face to face for months because he can’t bear to look at it. Hell can burn his soul alive – and for all Dean knows, they will – this here was worth it all.

Sam, with daeva claws written in scarlet across his face. The marks tug wrong, dried blood splitting at the edges when he manages a half smile at Dean across the acres of diner table keeping them apart. Their knees bump between the seats and Dean pushes his foot forward to hook around the back of Sam’s ankle. The thought of Sam leaving again still echoes hollowly in his gut, sparking around like a ricochet against iron and all he wants is to lean across the chipped plastic surface separating them and inhale Sam; breathe him up and in, taste, smell, feel until he’s all inside of Dean and nobody else can get at him.

Sam crunching broken twigs under foot as they hoof it through the orchard, some ancient god on their tail, his brother watching his back because Sam’ll always walk away, but he’ll always come running back when Dean needs him most.

Sam, smiling on the other side of the Impala, wind in his wavy hair and the perfume of a girl he’s in love with lingering on his skin, AC/DC powering them all the way to Jericho. Dean feels almost whole for the first time in years.

Sam, on a thin dormitory mattress, moaning and writhing and kissing anything Dean puts close; healing up the raw, festering sores of so much distance between them with hot touches and balmy words.

Sam, kissing him so hard Dean won’t taste anything but his brother for a week after the Greyhound bus has faded into a chalky cloud of dust on the horizon.

Sam, with a _legal_ driver’s license under his _legal_ name, taking Dean’s dick like a champ with the steering wheel grating into his spine and two beers easing the way. Cicadas hum beyond fogged up windows; muggy southern air, CCR playing low in the background, all of it eaten away to nothing by the tight heat of Sam’s body and the sweetness of a “Dean” that sounds like “I love you” on his breath.

Sam, fourteen and small still, and Dean going to give him one good crack across the jaw to show him what a smart mouth will get him; ending up with his tongue in there instead and never sure from that day to this which one of them started it.

Sam, finally in the double digits but still plagued by nightmares, crawling into bed with Dean as he kisses and coos and tries to take it all away, doing his damnedest the whole time not to be sick from how hard he is for the warmth of Sammy’s body.

Sam, six today and crying because Dad’s not here again, lighting up the moment Dean takes him into his arms and promises that _he’ll_ never miss one of his brother’s birthdays, knowing it might turn out to be a lie.

Sam, four, with a skateboard Dean stole from a kid down the street, looking up at him with those big, sad eyes asking him to kiss his scraped-red knee better.

Sam, in diapers, damp chubby fingers clinging to Dean’s own as he walks backward and Sam walks forward, using him for balance that he doesn’t yet know he doesn’t need to keep his tottery legs steady. Dean wants to keep holding on forever.

Sam, heavy in Dean’s own tiny arms, wailing as they watch flames lick at the indigo sky from their front yard. Baby’s breath mixed with ash on the wind is a scent he’ll remember for the rest of his life.

Sam, pink and blotchy and a size too small for his own skin as Dean reaches out a finger and – “gently!” just like Mommy and Daddy told him - strokes down his new brother’s cheek. Sammy turns into the touch, mouth baby-bird wide and without a second though, Dean leans in and presses a light, chaste kiss to his wet little lips.

And that’s it. End of the line. The first time Dean Winchester ever fell in love with his little brother.

He opens his eyes to the stark pseudo-reality of the astral plane, sparing a glance for the Doc standing over him, his assistant, both timing out the limited seconds he’s got to find a reaper, find Death himself. Find a goddamn way to rescue his real Sammy from the cage.

He pushes himself up off the table and quits wasting time. He’s got a life to get back.


End file.
